LAFD EPILOGUE
by AlmeidaFluff
Summary: Chapter 3: The Interrogation. This hi-fluff Tony & Michelle romantic comedy picks up where "Love at First Date" leaves off, one week later. xxxooo
1. Chapter 1

_This Tony & Michelle story picks up where "Love at First Date" leaves off.__ Enjoy, and please review! I love hearing from you! xxxooo_

**LAFD EPILOGUE**

**Chapter 1: His Dilemma**

The unit was in chaos. Glancing down at the bullpen, once again desks were vacated and, again, conversation could be heard emanating from the ladies room. How many times could the same women fawn over one ring? What was it with women and engagements and weddings, anyhow? Men weren't like that. The guys in the office weren't crowded into his office, asking which brand of champagne or type of hors d'oeuvres he was considering, or recommending places to hold a rehearsal dinner. One guy had said something to him. Just one: Jack.

"You getting married?"

"Yeah."

That was it. No discussion about traditional tuxes versus tails. No stressing over cummerbunds as opposed to vests. Who cared?

Thank God the nation wasn't under attack. Thank God it had been a wholly uneventful week of straight grunt work with CTU officially offline, its mandates temporarily divided among the various defense and law enforcement agencies and its main priority to replace the systems, staff and intel that the unit had lost in the bombing. But who knew when Chappelle might unexpectedly saunter through the door to assess the state of progress; or Hammond — and with God knew how many Homeland inspectors or Pentagon envoys at his side, there to tour the facility's innovative new technological advancements, like investors in some kind of new feature attraction at Disney World? With bodies constantly absent from their stations, it gave the appearance that he was either way behind in staffing up or had irresponsibly granted vacation to half the newly relocated Division, Homeland and Defense personnel down there.

_"Chloe,"_ he barked into the phone on his desk.

"Yes, Mr. Almeida?" she snapped back.

"Go get the women out of the bathroom," he ordered.

"Again?" she whined, with that whine. Though on the job for only five days, he was already prepared to fire her, based on her personality alone. He wasn't sure if federal employees could be terminated on the grounds of a personality disorder, but he was willing to set precedent. The woman possessed all the social skills of an eggplant. If she hadn't been carrying the workload for the women in the bathroom all week long, he'd have sent her packing by now.

"And don't question my orders again," he loudly reminded her for the umpteenth time.

"Relocating personnel is not part of my employment specificati—"

"Just do it," he yelled into the phone. "And tell that kid Adam to quit staring at Michelle."

Maybe Michelle had been right, after all, about having a game plan in place for the office. He hadn't anticipated all hell breaking loose when the two of them had taken a deep breath and walked through the door together on Monday morning, Michelle conspicuously sporting a diamond. The first hour had been fine, with women clustered all around her, admiring it and sharing their astonishment at not even knowing they'd even been dating. It was a nice ring, granted, and he had expected that kind of thing to go on in the first hour. It could even be viewed as contributing to boosting morale, he felt, which was sorely needed at a time when the painful loss of so many colleagues sat heavy on the minds of the old crew and newbies alike. Working shoulder-to-shoulder in a pressurized environment, constantly under elevated alert levels, created extraordinary conditions that tended to encourage and forge closer bonds than in civilian workplaces, he knew, courtesy of human nature alone. Bonding and building familiarity and trust was important in this line of business. But it was Friday, now, for crying out loud. Enough was enough. He had only just recently received his directorship, and it was his lone responsibility to get the unit up, running, fully operational, and ready for inspection and clearance as soon as possible.

He counted heads as he watched the line of women shuffle back into the bullpen and fan out in the directions of their respective stations, each taking a moment to flash a look up toward his window, like he was some kind of party pooper instead of the Director of the Counterintelligence Unit of the United States government; not to mention their boss.

He was tempted to roar over the speaker system for his Chief of Staff — who was _supposed_ to be coordinating interdepartmental document exchanges — to get herself up to his office, but thought twice upon recalling the first time he had used the speaker system that morning, mindlessly attaching "sweetheart" to the end of a request, which had prompted a chorus of snickers from the crew of brash young hotshots in the corner, on temporary loan from Homeland's elite cybersecurity division.

He glanced at his watch. The night shift would soon be transitioning in and he and Michelle would finally be out of there, thank God, and on the road to the airport to meet his Dad's plane. Tonight was the night his Mom would be told the news that she had waited for all these years to hear, God help them both. His Dad already knew that he had popped the question to Michelle. His Dad, in fact, had offered to take his corporate jet to Maine today and pick Michelle's aunts up for a two-week visit, suggesting it would kill two birds with one stone to just get the announcement over with in one evening, with both families doing a meet-and-greet on the same coast. Just let everyone get acquainted at the same time so that maybe by next week, he and Michelle could start resuming reasonably normal lives; or as normal as life could be once his Mom had been invited to organize the wedding — and pronto, too. He didn't want this planning business dragging on for the usual eternity that wedding arrangements took. He wanted to get married and on with his life. He was giving his Mom two weeks: way far more time than an expert like Amanda Almeida would need to pull off a perfect event. He had first been inclined to make it one week, but since a wedding dress was involved, he decided to be generous about it, entirely for Michelle and her aunts' sake, who would probably want to fuss over which of his Mom's couture designers should be entrusted with the project.

His Dad had come up with the whole scheme. His Dad was always thinking. And it had all just made so much sense, too. Michelle had been fretting about how and when to tell her aunts. And since they were going to have to be transported to attend the wedding anyway, she had taken Jim Almeida's sage advice and simply informed them, over the phone, that she had fallen in love and wanted them to come spend some quality time getting to know her new beau and his family. "Meeting the family" would send an unmistakable signal, in itself, that Michelle considered the relationship serious, therein elevating the importance in making the trip. And as if meeting a serious beau weren't enough impetus for her aunts to agree to an out-of-the-blue excursion, Michelle also knew that there was nothing they enjoyed more than traveling. They were the only two people in America who actually got a thrill out of spending time at an airport. It had always made them feel like part of the jet-set.

So the task of getting the aunts into town would be accomplished easily enough, and without spoiling the surprise announcement, either. It would also spare Tony, himself, from having to make an independent pilgrimage to the other side of the country at a time when he could least afford a day away from CTU, to introduce himself and ask for their niece's hand in marriage. It was a burden that would only be temporarily lifted from his shoulders, however, as a ritual like that was going to have to be performed, regardless, once Jim Almeida had gotten the aunts into town. His Dad would never let him fail to fulfill such a sacred, time-honored tradition, he knew. Almeida men did things "the right way," as his Dad's eyebrow had sternly reminded him at so many key junctures throughout his life.

The operation had pulled off perfectly, thus far, with his Mom thoroughly absorbed with her new grandtwins and none the wiser. If she had even so much of an inkling of the upcoming announcement that was being hatched right under her nose, she would have been over at CTU, like a bat out of hell, with her event planner, François, and his mobile design studio in tow. But not even dinner tonight had aroused suspicion in his Mom, since she had been standing right there when Jim Almeida had given Michelle a direct order to be seated at the dinner table sometime this week. Nor would his Dad's last-minute cell phone request for extra place settings likely tip her off, as Amanda was perfectly accustomed to having his business associates arrive at her table with next-to-no notice. Her household staff had been on red-alert dinner status for decades.

Three-thousand miles east, a black limousine pulled up in front of a quaint, white picket-fenced cottage, with a black SUV security car directly behind it. Jim Almeida wished he could have arrived with a little less fanfare, but traveling with a detail had graduated from a precautionary measure in pre-Terrorism War days to a necessary fact of life for leading corporate titans; particularly contractors who provided services to the military installation. They had always been ripe targets when traveling overseas, but the Pentagon had steadily upgraded the threat level for homeland travel over the years, owed to increased sleeper cell discoveries throughout the country, which posed a real and growing risk for high-value citizens.

Flanked on either side by his black-suited, sunglassed men and armed with a thick bouquet of flowers, Jim Almeida approached the quaint New England-style house where his future daughter-in-law had spent her formative years. His drive through the town had felt like a cruise through an oil painting of a bygone era when society had enjoyed a kinder and gentler existence. Somehow, this Shenandoah, this Shangri-la, this uniquely serene hamlet had managed to isolate itself from the rest of the fractious world. Fragrant blooms and leafy vines climbed trellises that framed the front doors of immaculately kept, modest cottage-sized houses. Children rode bicycles. People walked dogs. He half-expected a horse-drawn dairy cart to pull up from out of nowhere, with bottles of milk clanking against blocks of ice. He made a mental note to purchase one of these enchanted seaside nests as a romantic getaway for his wife and himself to make an occasional escape to, far from the maddening Bel-Air crowd.

Jim Almeida checked his tie in the reflection of his lead man's sunglasses before leaning in to press the doorbell. Though he had never lost his elite Special Forces Psych-Op training from his service days in the Mekong, where the necessity to instantly size up the villagers was an imperative component to remaining alive, he wouldn't be needing to draw upon his skills to evaluate the sisters. Aunt Gert had immediately revealed herself as the clear leader, decision-maker and protectorate of the two, he instantly recognized, upon her having politely, though firmly, requested from the other side of the door that he slide two forms of I.D. through the mail slot. With a nod of his chin to the security guard on his right, the man produced his boss's passport and drivers license and, leaning down, inserted it through the flip-up brass receptacle. A few quiet minutes had ensued while Jim and his men stood solidly in place, listening to whispery chatter through the heavy oak door, followed by the sounds of a beeping security panel disengaging and various bolts unlatching from their cylinders.

In the open door stood another vision of bygone times, though more like the Loretta Young days of the 1950's, when women wore crisp cotton dresses, heirloom pearls and broaches, and invisible silk hairnets to keep their manicured coiffures in perfect order. The sisters — considerably older than Jim had expected and whom he had found himself towering over by at least a foot — were immaculately groomed and transmitting a drugstore-purchased Coty fragrance that he hadn't smelled since his days as a boy in Brooklyn.

"Aren't these lovely," Aunt Gert, the younger of the two by at least ten years, croaked in a tiny voice as she exchanged Jim Almeida's credentials for the flowers he stooped in and placed in her arms.

After formally introducing himself and lightly kissing each lady's dainty, withered hand, he nodded for his men to take their positions outside the door while he joined the women inside for the tea they had prepared. At that point, Tony had received a call at his desk from his Dad's front man, informing him that "the client has made contact." Now, nearly seven hours later, he was sending his own chin signals down to Michelle in the bullpen, trying to hurry her along with the process of settling the night crew in and briefing them on their assignments so that he could finally, and officially, end this annoying week, all together, and get them on the road to the airport. After his Dad had gone to the trouble of making a coast-to-coast pickup on their behalf, it would be beyond unacceptable not to be standing on the tarmac when his plane taxied in.

"You and I are gonna have a talk about that ladies room," he warned her in a firm voice as he shuffled her into the passenger's seat and clapped the door behind her.

Michelle wasn't the least bit concerned; she knew that his nerves were on edge in anticipation of not only meeting his future aunts-in-law for the first time but of the wedding madness that was predestined to bust loose the second his mother had been gifted with the responsibility of weaving her magic over the course of the next mere two weeks. She quickly double-checked her purse for the guest list that they had crafted at the kitchen table the other night, when her future father-in-law had stopped by with the ten names that his secretary had spit out of the printer. With the threesome's modest guest list already hammered out and printed up, all Amanda would have to do, to instantly get the painfully short-notice invitations into her engraver's hands, is add her own list of guests. The invitation scheduling itself was ridiculous, as normal timing was concerned, but Michelle intuitively knew that Tony would never acquiesce to the traditional six-week advance notice that guests were generally treated to. She was certain, in fact, that somewhere in the recesses of his mind, he was counting on the short timing to ultimately cut the number of attendees from his mother's column down to a reasonable size.

"Did you call that woman of yours?" was the first thing he asked as he fired up the engine of the car, thinking of the furry state his apartment was in after having had her fat cat as a houseguest for the entire week.

"She came by the office this morning, honey. I gave her a key," Michelle said, soothingly, as he eased them out of the parking space and headed toward the open lot's exit. "She's been cleaning all day."

"There'd better not be anything missing," he warned her.

He had agreed to it only for Mrs. Sanchez's sake. He had called his housekeeper last night and surprised her with a bonus day off, thinking it wise to spare her the sight of the apartment that she'd dedicated so many years of her life keeping in ship-shape order. No reason she should have to be subjected to suddenly dealing with the fat one's fur, which had built up over the week to the point of seemingly blanketing the apartment from one end to the other. Mrs. Sanchez hadn't signed on for a mission like that. And no amount of the vacuuming that he had made Olivia's boyfriend, Gerald, do had seemed to make even a dent in the insufferable shedding situation. There was something inherently wrong with having to bring Michelle's housekeeper in to clean before his own housekeeper arrived, he had first noted to himself and then loudly to Michelle, but it was the only course of action he could think to take.

"She's not a thief, dear. She's a housekeeper," Michelle tsk-ed. "The only thing that will be missing is the fur she's vacuuming up…"

And polishing off, and dusting away, and otherwise magically obliterating, as only a professional of Mrs. Goebel's caliber and skill level could masterfully pull off. Michelle had lost so many housekeepers due to Fluff-Fluff's excessive shedding. Mrs. Goebels's arrival had been nothing short of a godsend to her. She shuddered at the thought that, although Tony had yet to realize, there was no way they were going to be able to make do without her housekeeper; not if he wished to live in a fur-free home. She wasn't quite sure how she was going to eventually break it to him, but if it had to come down to deciding between housekeepers, Mrs. Goebels had the job-security edge over Mrs. Sanchez, hands down.

He drove in unusual silence. She laid her hand on his thigh and gently swirled small circles with her nails against the fabric pulled tightly across his skin. Something else was bothering him, she knew; something beyond the chaos at the office or the existence of Mrs. Goebels at his apartment.

"You promised you were always going to tell me everything, remember?" she softly reminded him, leaning in to switch off the low-level chatter of the radio's news anchors.

He didn't speak for a moment.

"I don't like the way you're handling the staff, Michelle," he grumbled.

"I know you're annoyed, but that's not it," she responded, detecting a little too much of a brood in his voice to account for an office-related issue.

He remained silent for another moment, eyes glued to the road.

"I don't like this living arrangement," he gruffly confessed in a low, controlled tone, but with a deep frown etched into his brow.

"I know it's difficult, honey," she gently replied. "And I know it's hard to be looking after Fluff-Fluff, with the two of you barely even acquainted yet. But with real estate agents coming and going all day while I'm at work—"

"I know, I know," he grumpily cut in, not seeking to assign any blame to her. It had been his own big idea to get Michelle's place listed and off their hands as soon as possible. And he even understood that the cat couldn't very well be roaming and shedding all over the premises while realtors showed the place to interested parties — and especially not with the furball's penchant for making a break for it whenever a door swung open. But he hadn't anticipated that it would also result in Michelle spending her nights at her place instead of his. He didn't know about all this newfangled "staging" stuff, to make places look more spacious and inviting in down markets; he didn't know that it would involve her having to pack certain things up at night, and have a company haul big space-eating furniture items off to a storage facility, or that she would also have to be on hand first thing in the morning to turn keys over to whichever realtors wished to show the place to prospective buyers during the day.

"I tried to warn you about looking to get so many tasks accomplished in only two—"

"It was something that was gonna have to get done anyway, Michelle," he defended himself, with a distinct ring of grouchiness now present in his tone. It wouldn't have made any financial sense, they had both agreed, to continue carrying her empty place once the three of them — that critter of hers included — were all living at his place after they returned from the honeymoon. It was best that they get rid of the condo now so that, once they got back, finding a house would be the only thing they would need to contend with. "It's just…"

Silence followed. She gave him a few moments to stew. She knew what he was about to say: he didn't like the idea of her side of his bed being vacant for two long more weeks. Although they had only spent a weekend together, it had felt more like a year. Waking up beside each other had come to feel so natural and right. Neither had expected that their first night apart would feel so desperately lonely, or that the emptiness would increase as the week dragged on. They had taken to calling each other and falling asleep together with their phones on.

"I think the situation is what it is for now, honey," she gently broke the news to him. "With my aunts at my place for the next two weeks, I can't very well be staying at yours."

Every which way Tony had examined the situation, there was no scenario that worked out in his favor: He had instantly eliminated the idea of the furball being kept at a kennel, knowing that Michelle would never even entertain the thought. He knew that being strapped with her cat was a given, as was Michelle's hosting her aunts. No scenario he could think of would deliver Michelle into his bed.

"It's just that I think your cat misses you," he informed her, taking a stab at stirring some concern in her for the emotional state of her pumpkin chop, though aware that she would only see right through his transparent ploy. "I think—y'know, I think that maybe we should re-access the situation. Maybe… I dunno, one of those Bel-Air Hotel cottages. It's a luxury resort, Michelle. Movie stars are always crawling all over that place. Old ladies get a big kick out of that kinda thing."

But as he heard the suggestion departing his lips, he knew that he wasn't even kidding himself, much less Michelle. The fact was that no rational reason or excuse existed for the aunts to stay anywhere other than right where they had always stayed through all the years they had been making their annual trek to her side of the country: in the familiar guest room, with the twin beds, at their beloved niece's abode.

"We'll find some time to be together, dear," she gently assured him, though knowing the chances were next to nil that between accelerated wedding arrangements and other unforeseen festivities that her future mother-in-law would undoubtedly plan, the only "alone time" they were likely to share were stolen moments in a CTU supply closet, if they could even still find one that hadn't yet been equipped with security sensors. Anywhere else on the premises wasn't even an option anymore, what with that new recruit, Chloe, noticing every last little unusual glitch in the entire system, as though she were physically wired into the grid, herself. The last time they had ventured to shut down the cameras in a halfway-renovated interrogation room, the woman had taken it upon herself to initiate a lockdown of the entire facility and transmit a Level-1 Breach of Security notice to Division.

"I just — I don't like you being away like this," he capped it off, deciding to leave it at, for now. Now didn't seem like the right time to broach a discussion about the disturbing dream he'd had about Nina, which had been bothering him all day long. He would wait for a proper DIB opportunity to give Michelle the background, first, regarding all the hell he had been through after Nina's arrest: the humiliation upon realizing he had been sleeping with the enemy, literally, and how it had felt to have every federal colleague come to learn about it; the torment of knowing that she had played him for such a fool and that he — a trained agent — had never even had a clue; the way the whole sordid story had gone on to become folklore throughout the international intelligence community. It had affected his life on so many different levels back then, but he had worked his way past it and hadn't planned to revisit any of the details, ever again. That morbid, ugly part of his life was over and not coming back, he had sternly told himself so many times until he finally believed it. But last night's bizarre dream had disturbed and haunted and followed him around throughout the day, and he wanted Michelle's take on what it meant. She was good at figuring out that kind of thing.

He steered over to the airport's security gatehouse and went through the usual clearance motions, running his CTU I.D. through the slot, pressing his hand against the scanner, and signing into the private hangers' log.

"How ya been, Mike?" he asked, handing the paperwork back to the security officer.

"Good, Tony. They're putting your dad in another circle."

"How long ya figure?"

"He's got four birds ahead of him, so… ten, fifteen minutes, maybe?"

The words felt like music to his ears.

"Are his guys in their office or already on the tarmac?"

"Tarmac," Mike said, only barely getting the reply out of his mouth before the car's wheels were screeching off in the direction of the empty hangar.


	2. Chapter 2

_This high-fluff Tony & Michelle story picks up where "Love at First Date" leaves off. Enjoy, and please review! I love hearing from you! xxxooo_

**LAFD EPILOGUE**

**Chapter 2: Her Aunts**

"Sorry for the lack of romance," he reiterated with a somewhat proud smirk, noticing her hand still mildly trembling in his. Or perhaps it was his hand trembling in hers. It was hard to tell.

"No need to apologize," Michelle responded with glowing cheeks, still a bit breathless and weak in the knees as she stood beside him on the tarmac, watching Almeida Amalgamate's Gulfstream-G550 begin its slow and steady descent toward Earth. "Sorry for the lack of romance" were the same words he had uttered back in the security detail's office, if she recalled correctly, right before he had slammed and locked the door behind them and checked his watch. She wondered if the aircraft mechanics on the other side of the hangar had heard the thud of the door — or the ensuing sounds that the creaking old wooden desk's legs had made, straining and scraping against worn-out floorboards. Her hair had gotten caught in the stapler. His elbow had sent a multi-dial phone bank crashing to the floor in a symphony of beeps and blings. Her blouse, under her jacket, now bore an ink stain where an uncapped pen had wedged itself beneath her on the desk, where Tony had hungrily deposited her and had his way with her — what little time they had even been graced with before Almeida Amalgamated's captain's voice could be heard over the squawk box in the corner, requesting final clearance to land. She had exited the office with a post-it note adhered to the back of her pencil skirt, which Tony had fortunately noticed and removed before they had reached the tarmac.

"I think I'm gonna like being married to you," he casually mentioned, now drawing her into the side of his suit jacket that he held open to her, like a door, to shield her from the wind that was picking up speed and gust on the open field.

"Think?" she grinned, burrowing in and luxuriating in the mixture of warmth and dampness radiating from his shirt and the thick, intoxicating aroma of dissipating aftershave comingling with sweat-scented skin. "You seem like a pretty happy man to me," she giggled, wrapping her arms snuggly around his waist.

"You're making me look fat, Michelle," he ignored her, straining to tug both sides of the jacket around her and wallowing in his ability to make her giggle like that. Life was so good. He rested his cheek against the top of her soft thicket of hair, his nose twitching from the airborne curls caught up in the stiff wind whipping across the airport's wide-open expanses. "By the way, you're coming home with me tonight," he stated, thinking it only fair to officially acquaint her with the facts.

"You know I can't do that, honey," she gently broke it to him for the hundredth time that week. "Not with my aunts staying with me. They're a little too old-fashioned for that, I'm afraid."

"You're coming with me," he firmly reiterated, and meant it, ignoring her deep sigh. "I'll figure something out," he said with a voice that had made up its mind for both of them. He was pulling rank. He'd had it with the great lengths they'd been forced to go to all week long, just to steal so much as a kiss before approaching footsteps could be heard; or one of their names had been called out over the P.A. system, announcing an incoming call; or some siren or another had tripped itself off, owed to a new technology that neither of them had been brought up to speed with; or all eyes had fallen upon them in the parking lot when they'd tried to exchange a few basic emotions before having to go their separate ways, to their separate cars and beds. He hadn't waited all these years to find his "it" only to have her sleeping clear across town instead of beside him, where she belonged. His body literally ached to have her stretched out against his white sheets again, like she had the weekend before, mercilessly teasing him with her sultry, naked body gestures, unexpected quips and the creative suggestions that had so neatly and mischievously scorched the depths of his brain. It wasn't even a matter of wanting but needing her back; there was nothing more to it than that. He had found himself punching the pillow beside his, just to create an indentation that made it seem as though her head had been resting there. Seven days was his limit, he had realized last night, after having awoken for the third or fourth time. He wasn't quite sure how he was going to make it happen, but he wasn't going through another night of this. Michelle would be curled up beside him when he awoke in the morning. That much was no longer up for discussion.

"Oh, look how in _love_ they are! Oh, Gertie, come see this," Aunt Hildie crowed, in her tiny voice, from her window seat aboard Almeida Amalgamated, immediately having identified their niece's shock of reddish, windbound curls, even from so far away as down on the tarmac, where Michelle, and the man whose jacket she shared, appeared no larger than the size of ants.

But Aunt Gert's eyes were otherwise occupied, stealing glances at the wedding band on the hand of the man she had waited her entire lifetime to meet: one Jim Almeida. So prominently and almost proudly displayed on his finger, it had instantly dashed all hopes of her having finally found the gallant, handsome, elegant gentleman of her dreams; that, and the fact that he was also little too young for her, by at least a decade. But even if only lasting for a fleeting moment, Aunt Gert had permitted herself to fantasize, drinking in the heart-arresting, love-at-first-sight, perfect vision of manliness sitting across the table from her, reeking of sensuality, inborn brute strength, suavity, and Old Spice. Regrettably, she would have to be content to swoon from a distance, she knew, as any woman who had nabbed such a manly man as Jim Almeida was not only worthy of admiration and respect but surely not likely to give him up without one heck of a fight.

"Well, madam, you appear to have cleaned me out again," Jim Almeida affably announced, laying a handful of facedown cards on the table between them. "Remind me never to spend a weekend with you in Monaco," he added, having let her win yet another hand of Gin Rummy but nevertheless pulling his checkbook from his breast pocket. "My dear wife will have my head for allowing myself to fall into the hands of an experienced card shark," he smiled.

"Oh, now, you put that away this instant, Jim," Aunt Gert insisted. "How could I take the money of a man who so generously purchased our tickets for this incredible flight," she cooed. "What airline _is_ this, anyway? I've never enjoyed such comfort or service."

"Well, I guess you could call it a private carrier," Jim responded with an inner chuckle, charmed that the concept of a craft owned by an individual had not even entered the woman's mind; not nearly half as charmed, however, as by the soft squealing sounds emitting from the older of the two aunts, seated across the aisle from them. Out of the corner of his eye, he had caught Aunt Hildie tenderly touch the top of the large trunk situated between herself and the facing seat. The trunk was above and beyond the two suitcases the ladies were traveling with, he couldn't help but have noticed, thinking at the time of its boarding that its contents must be important, given the direct handle-with-care orders Aunt Hildie had given the two Black Suits he had assigned to board the item. The tender way in which Aunt Hildie was now unconsciously petting its old, rickety lid confirmed Jim's initial suspicion that Michelle's aunts were likely fully aware of the reason they were being summoned for an impromptu visit on zero-notice. The old trunk probably held some pretty special cargo, as far as his former Psych-Ops training could surmise.

Tony swirled a firm hand around Michelle's back, warming the part that his straining jacket had left exposed, as he watched his Dad's aircraft make a sleek, elegant landing and begin its taxi in the direction of the cars awaiting its arrival.

"Ya want me to hold onto that ring for you?" he volunteered, watching as the jet finally coasted to its end mark, only a few yards away from where his dad's security detail was already rolling out of the limousine and SUV, readying to take up their positions. He took a moment to quietly admire how coordinated and well-oiled a team his Dad had put together for himself. Although no man in corporate America despised the necessity for a security team quite like Jim Almeida, he had nevertheless taken the task seriously, assembling a detail as professional and lethal as any United States president might hope to have watching his or her back.

"What do you mean, 'hold the ring'?" Michelle looked up at him and quizzically inquired.

"Well, it isn't exactly gonna be a surprise announcement at the dinner table if your aunts have already seen a diamond on your hand," he said.

Her heart sank a little. She didn't want to remove it. He had put it there. She wanted to keep it there. She didn't want her finger to be without it.

"I'll keep my hand hidden," she said, fumbling to find her suit jacket's nonexistent pockets.

"Sweetheart, I don't think that's gonna—"

"I'll turn it backwards," she said, quickly giving the ring a twist so that the diamond sat cupped inside her hand. "My aunts won't notice. I always wear rings."

Tony gave up and returned his attention to his Dad's security team's well-rehearsed procedures, having pin-pointedly arranged the limousine and SUV's at a perfect distance from the mark that Almeida Amalgamated's captain never failed to hit.

"Don't be nervous," Michelle said, herself now nervously smoothing her pencil skirt and checking to see that her blouse was neatly tucked. "They're just two perfectly lovely old ladies…"

"Old ladies don't make me nervous, Michelle," he lied, watching as two of his dad's black-suited security men, who'd entered the aircraft's door, were now emerging, each gingerly maneuvering a rocking chair, taking great care to deliver them to the bottom of the narrow stairwell undamaged, as evidently ordered.

"Exactly how old are your aunts?" Tony frowned, quickly doing the math on the late-thirties-to-mid-forties women he had examined in the photo he'd swiped from Michelle's bookshelf last weekend.

"That's their knitting and sewing rockers, dear. They like to rock when they're embroidering and hand-sewing things."

"I hope you don't have one," he warned. "I didn't sign on for one of those things in my house."

"It's gonna be my house, too. Remember?"

"So brief me," he cut her off, deciding now was probably not a good time to inform her that, no, there would be no silly looking rocking chairs in their house until babies arrived and that just as soon as the babies had gotten through the nursing stage, that rocker would be out of there.

"There's nothing you need to know, dear. They're just two sweet old ladies. Aunt Gert is the younger one, in the blue floral dress," she said, waving excitedly as Aunt Gert emerged from the door on the arm of Jim Almeida. "She's the more worldly and no-nonsense of the two— the one who used to chase after Danny with the wooden spoon, remember?"

"Uh-huh," he said, making a mental note to watch his step around that one.

"Oh, and Aunt Hildie, in the yellow floral — her memory isn't what it used to be, and she has a slight hearing problem, and she doesn't like heights," she said of the aunt who followed behind, clinging fearfully to the arm of a the tall, strapping, black-suited, black-sunglassed security guard, who appeared to be politely counting the steps for her, as requested. "She can go up the stairs just fine, but sometimes has a little 'vertigo' problem going down. And they both love sewing and reading romance novels. Just be yourself," Michelle cooed, her excitement growing for the moment of formally showing him off to her aunts.

"They're not gonna pinch my cheeks, are they?

"Which ones, dear?"

"I hate when old ladies do that, Michelle."

"I'll try to subtly pass that information along," she calmly allayed his fears.

"What do I talk about?" he fretted, suddenly feeling the heat of having to make a good impression, for Michelle's sake, and reminding himself to be on his best gentlemanly behavior, as Almeida male heritage demanded, and his father expected.

"Anything except the dangers of the job — oh, and Danny's arrest."

"I wasn't responsible for that," he reminded her. "Didn't you say he got into a bar fight?"

"Yes, but Aunt Hildie has it confused with the CTU incident," Michelle cautioned, "and you were among those who subdued him, so don't bring it up… In fact, just don't mention CTU," she advised, exclusively for her own sake, since her aunts were none too particularly fond of her chosen profession, and especially not after the building had exploded just a scant few weeks ago, news of which they had received through their television set instead of Michelle, herself, who had been under Mason's direct orders to refrain from contacting family and friends.

"I'm your boss, Michelle. CTU is probably gonna come up," he matter-of-factly reminded.

"Just — just let them bring it up, provided they even do, okay? Don't you be the one to say anything," Michelle insisted as he reluctantly released her from inside his jacket and took her hand to begin their 50something yard stroll toward the airstairs.

He watched as his Dad ushered Aunt Gert down the last couple of steps and onto firm ground, then noticed that things didn't appear to be going so well for the second, more elderly aunt, who was frozen solid in her tracks midway down the steps, clinging to the rail for dear life and ignoring the coaxing of her Black Suit escort. Jim Almeida's eyebrow arched, formally releasing his Black Suit from the task and dead-eyeing Tony into action, approving of the polite nod of hello his son had given Aunt Gertie as he flew past and dashed up the steps, taking two at a time.

"Ma'am?" was all Tony said as an introduction to the terrified one, noticing Michelle's worried expression out of the corner of his eye as she took shelter in her Aunt Gert's arms. "Uhh… I used to be a Marine, ma'am, and we had an old trick when this kinda thing happened — okay?" he checked.

The old woman's frightened expression touched his heart a bit when he noticed a slight family resemblance to Michelle and suddenly realized that he didn't even know which parent Michelle took after. He made a mental note to ask her about it when they were lying in bed tonight.

"All ya have to do is close your eyes, and I'll take it from there," he instructed her, with a soft but authoritative voice. "Okay? Can you do that for me?" he asked, patiently waiting the few seconds it took before the tiny aunt had pensively nodded her head and sealed her eyes shut. Sweeping her into his arms, he was down the stairs before she had even realized what was happening to her.

"Done," he informed himself as much as the aunt, gently returning her featherweight body to its feet. His Dad approached to offer the shaken women his arm and his son a nod of "Well done," followed by the dreaded traditional kiss to his cheek.

"There, now, that wasn't so bad, was it?" Jim Almeida checked with little woman, gently patting her hand. "May I introduce you to my son, ladies?" he suavely inquired, holding his other arm out to Gertrude and waiting for her to join them before performing the honors.

Standing quietly beside her aunts, Michelle grinned at the sight of her still-somewhat stunned Aunt Hildie now robotically detaching herself from Jim Almeida and gravitating directly toward Tony, slipping her hand into his. She had found her protectorate for the trip, Michelle giggled to herself. A bellhop or the hotel's concierge would generally be the one her aunt would always attach herself to, and call upon, whenever she felt vulnerable in a strange new place, which was essentially every strange new place she had ever visited. Michelle had forgotten to mention that part to Tony, who was presently staring at her with eyes begging to know why he was holding hands with an eightysomething.

"Are you the man who arrested our Danny?" memory-challenged Aunt Hildie inquired, gazing up at perhaps the most handsome concierge she'd encountered in all her years of travel.

"No, ma'am. That was the Los Angeles Police Department," Tony gently reminded her, finding himself oddly charmed by how securely her delicate little rickety hand was gripping his, and how vulnerable her tiny voice made her seem. It reminded him of Olivia, when she was little and would always instantly take his hand whenever she was in a new environment, or her security blanket was nowhere to be found. He was also touched by the ease and familiarity with which the little lady had taken his hand, as though she had known him forever and trusted him, implicitly.

"He drank too much and got in a fight," she informed him with a heavy heart and sorrowful eyes.

"Yes, I heard," Tony softly responded, careful not to reveal his relief that Danny would be dining in a lockup tonight and not at his parents' home. He was happy not to have to deal with the added pressure of wondering if the guy was going to get himself tanked and call him out for a fistfight, just to blow off steam.

"You seem like a nice boy," Aunt Hildie decided, sending a glance of approval to her younger sister, whose steady attention had already returned to Jim Almeida.

"Thank you, ma'am," he courteously replied, earning another nod of approval, though this one from his Dad, who'd stepped in to escort the woman into Michelle's arms.

"Thanks again for the pick-up, Dad," he said as the two of them stood side-by-side for a moment, politely giving Michelle and her aunts time to gush over each other. After a few minutes, Jim Almeida broke things up by holding an arm out to the china doll, signaling her into his embrace.

Michelle swooned from the power of her future father-in-law's arms and the way in which she seemed to become instantly and wholly swallowed by them. She closed her eyes throughout their long hello-hug, drinking in the sweet, intoxicating scent of his Old Spice and imagining that if she had been able to know her own father, he would probably have smelled just like this.

To Tony's surprise and before he could do anything about it, Aunt Hildie had strolled away from her sister and returned to his side, reaffixing her hand to his.

"Uh… Michelle?" he politely pleaded.

"Are we going to the hotel now?" the little lady inquired of him.

"Uhhh…" Tony responded, not sure what his father may have told them, but then remembering what Michelle had said about the woman's slight memory problem "Michelle?" he nervously called over to her again, waving her out of his Dad's arms."Your aunt is wondering if they're going to the _hotel_ now," he repeated, desperately sending subtle head nods and exaggerated wide-eyed signals to suggest to her that this might be their big chance to make a quick change of plans and stick the ladies in a luxury getaway, as he had earlier suggested.

"No, Aunt Hildie, you're staying with me, remember?" Michelle sweetly stated, ignoring his eye gyrations. "The limousine is gonna take you, Aunt Gertie and me to my apartment, to freshen up, and then we're going to—"

"How about the ladies freshen up at the house?" Jim Almeida interceded, checking his watch and beginning to think twice about the timing. "We've got the whole third floor up there, and it'll save an entire trip back-and-forth. What do you say?" he suggested.

"I could do with a Scotch," or two, Tony immediately weighed in, reminded of all the hellish fussing that was lying ahead once his Mom had gotten the official word of their engagement. Olivia would be squealing, too, he was sure of it, given how much she liked Michelle. Plus, Pete and Sarina were home in the cottage out back, with the new twins, which promised to be a whole other squealing nightmare unto itself.

"Okay with you, ladies?" Jim Almeida asked Aunt Hildie, watching his son simultaneously transferring the woman's hand into Michelle's.

"I would adore a Tom Collins," Aunt Gertie enthusiastically chimed in, having so enjoyed the one she'd been offered on the plane.

"Well, then, a cocktail party it is," Jim settled it. "You and Michelle can follow us in your car, chief," he said, reading his son's mind. "I'd enjoy nothing more than a little extra alone-time with these enchanting ladies, if that's agreeable with everyone."

Tony shot his Dad a grateful glance, reminding himself to thank him later for his gift of a little more alone-time with Michelle. He stepped forward, without prompting, for the mandatory goodbye kiss, knowing how much his Dad liked it when he didn't have to be ordered to submit.

Noticing that the older aunt had left Michelle's side and was shuffling toward him again, like a proton drawn to a neutron, he sighed and ran his fingertips up and down his cheek a few times before opening his free, clenched hand up, awaiting the inevitable.

"Are we going to the hotel now?" she took his hand and peered up at him through inquisitive eyes, apparently having somehow missed the entire conversation.

"Uhhh… yeah, you're going to the hotel now, Aunt Hattie," he said, inadvertently confusing her name with the woman who freaked out about birthing babies, in "Gone with the Wind." He expected the ensuing bullets that immediately came flying from Michelle's eyes, for his having tried to further implant the concept of a hotel in her aunt's mind, but pretended not to notice. "Steve?" he called out to his Dad's lead Black Suit, motioning him over and transferring the woman's hand onto the man's arm. "Get the ladies in the car," he ordered, despite having no authority over them. "Oh, and, uhh…" he murmured, leaning in and lowering his voice, "…your office phone is busted. Send me the bill and keep it between us, huh?"

"You got it, Agent," the Suit respectfully complied, beginning the delicate task of shepherding the little old lady away.

"Are we going to the hotel now?" Tony heard her asking the Suit this time, as he ushered her toward the open limousine door, moving her along as gently and gingerly as his giant body was able to master.

"No, Aunt Hildie, he's taking you to—" Michelle called out, but deciding to just end it at that, reminding herself that her dear aunt was in her eighties, now, and could be expected to suffer brief bouts of confusion. She was the oldest of her mother's sisters, after all: a woman in her forties when she had taken Danny and her into her home, after her parents' tragic demise.

But Michelle did fully intend to have a little talk with that fiancé of hers, whom she was not going to allow to take advantage of the situation, for his and her own personal gain, by continuing to plant the suggestion of a luxury hotel in her aunt's mind. She would lay down the rules for him on the drive over to his parents' house, she firmly decided, then and there.

"You be good to our Michelle," Aunt Hildie turned and stated, out of the blue, directing her comment at Tony as the Suit pondered how to somehow get her into the back of the limousine without breaking her.

"I plan to take good care of her, ma'am," he assured the tiny little woman, whose yellow floral dress was so caught up in the tarmac's wind gusts that he half-expected her to take flight at any moment.

Walking the fifty yards back to his car, he held the passenger door for Michelle and then circled around to the driver's side, preparing for the talking-to he instinctively knew would be coming. But as she scolded and warned him about any more plans he might be in the throes of hatching, he found himself thinking about how Aunt Hattie had reminded him of the classic, quintessential loving grandmother and how it had surprised him to feel like he had known the old lady forever. She had also inspired a few out-of-nowhere memories of Pop to come pouring into his head, which always made him feel good whenever that happened.

As Michelle rattled on with her lecture, responses to which he dutifully alternated between "Yes, honey" and "I won't" every couple of threats or so, the thing that struck him most was how he hadn't expected to bond with either of the old ladies at all, but to merely politely tolerate them over the course of the next two weeks. But he was actually liking something about that Aunt Hattie one. He still wasn't sure about the other one — the authoritative one with the wooden spoon — who had seemed to be staring him down like she knew that he had been the one in charge when Danny needed to be secured and medicated, following his wild outburst.

"Are you listening to me?" Michelle sternly inquired as he followed behind the limousine, making its final turn through the gates that led to the Almeida's palatial home, which might as well be a luxury hotel, it occurred to him, given its size and grandeur.

"Yes, honey," he assured her, though not really having absorbed much of her scolding or list of rules. "Listen, uhh," he mumbled as they unbuckled their seat belts in harmony, "are you absolutely sure you want my Mom to handle this thing? I'm leaving it entirely to you, honey, and it's now or never, if ya wanna change your mind," he reminded her, his voice and eyes laden with sympathy for what he knew she would be subjecting herself to once Amanda Almeida had formally fired up her planning machine.

"I've never been so certain of anything," Michelle assured him with a soft kiss to his cheek, and words reminiscent of those she had used last weekend, when he had asked if she was certain about making the no-turning-back love-making leap with him.

"Okay, then, baby," he said, fighting off the intoxicated state that her soft, brave, doe-like eyes and kiss had immediately visited upon him. "It's your decision," he sighed, thinking that "your nightmare" would likely turn out to be a more apropos choice of words.


	3. Chapter 3

_This high-fluff Tony & Michelle story picks up where "Love at First Date" leaves off. Enjoy, and please review! I love hearing from you! xxxooo_

**LAFD EPILOGUE**

**Chapter 3: The Interrogation**

"They're here _already_? But you weren't scheduled to arrive for at least another hour, darling. I'm not even through dressing!" Amanda sputtered, horrified by the realization that she'd committed the unforgivable social atrocity of not having been present to properly greet her husband's clients at the door.

"I have a wonderful surprise for you, sweetheart," Jim Almeida grinned, taking his wife by the forearms and sweeping her up from the dainty upholstered bench she would always perch herself upon when checking her hair, affixing her earrings and dabbing herself with the sweet Parisian perfume he had kept her well-stocked in for decades now.

"Why, aren't you frisky this evening," Amanda gasped in surprise as her husband's powerful arms swept her in for a wholly unexpected, deep and passionate kiss: the type he generally reserved for Saturday evenings after having recuperated on the golf course from a grueling week of nonstop travel and power-meetings; the type of kiss that set the tone for a long night of champagne and romance. "That must have been quite a successful trip today," she purred, somewhat dazed by the mixture of sensuality and raw masculinity that her husband's embraces never failed to deliver.

"You're a little overdressed, sweetheart," he mentioned, smoothing a hand down, around and across her magnificent form. "Wear one of those pretty daytime things of yours…"

"I thought my red dress was your favorite," she cooed against his cheek, conducting a quick mental inventory and deciding which sinfully silky nightgown to don for him after the work-side of their evening was over.

"It is, but our guests are dressed informally," he informed her, releasing her from his embrace and placing her back on her upholstered bench.

"Wh— well, who _are_ we entertaining, darling? You didn't even say," she frowned in confusion, now wondering if she should be wearing her hair up or down, and whether Carré d'agneau a la Provençale was even appropriate cuisine for daytime attire.

"You'll see," her excessively cheery husband teased, stripping his suit jacket off in preparation for his usual quick change into the fresh shirt she would always lay out on their bed, whenever they had a full evening of entertaining before them. "I had them escorted to the third-floor suite, to freshen up before cocktails."

"Cocktails! You hadn't even mentioned cocktails, darling! Does Rosa even—"

"I called her from the car. Everything's fine..."

"Would you mind too terribly just checking on things, all the same, darling? You know how it upsets her to have her schedule thrown off like that, and two of the waiters the agency sent over are completely new to the household."

"Will do. You just hurry up making yourself beautiful," he said, catching her diamond-encrusted wrist as she flew past him on her way to her dressing room. "Oh, and, uhh… I want to see you back in this dress tonight," he softly ordered, pressing a final gentle kiss against her ear before unhanding her.

Knotting his tie as he made his way down the foyer's semi-circular staircase, he spied Olivia racing at lightening speed up the other side.

"You… down to the drawing room. Your mother will be there in a minute," Jim Almeida instructed her. "And why aren't you in a dress?"

"I'll change, Daddy, but first I just wanna tell Michelle about the two tickets I got for —"

"This instant," Jim Almeida's eyebrow firmly cut her off.

She sulked, climbing the few remaining steps as if planning to head to her room, but then taking a running detour in the opposite direction the moment her father had reached the bottom of the staircase and turned the corner, toward the kitchen.

After tearing up the remaining staircase to the third floor, and down the hallway to the door at the end, Olivia decided to politely knock rather than kick it down in unbridled excitement, desperate to share her thrilling news with Michelle.

_"Christie Turlington is holding a seminar, from one to three-thirty, this Saturday on the mezzanine level of Blommingdales!_" her natural-born whispery voice shrieked out before the door had even fully opened.

"Wait, what?" Michelle reared back at the unexpected sight of the two tickets Olivia was wildly waving in front of her face.

"Daddy says I have to change and get down to the drawing room, but please tell me you'll go," she breathlessly begged, thrusting one of the tickets into Michelle's hand, making curious note of the other hand that she seemed to be trying to conceal behind her back. "Please, please, _please_ don't make other plans. We'll actually get to _meet_ her, Michelle! This could be my big opportunity!"

Olivia's stunning facial features would require no "big opportunity," Michelle knew. Christie Turlington's own agent would throw the world-renowned supermodel straight under a bus in a New York heartbeat for a chance to sign Olivia L.H. Almeida to an exclusive contract.

"Who are those ladies?" Olivia asked, her whispery voice dropping an octave as she gazed over Michelle's shoulder and into the room.

"They're my aunts. They're visiting from Maine," Michelle said as Aunt Hildie softly padded her way to the door, radiating a beaming smile.

"Why, who is this beautiful young girl, kitten?" she asked her niece, extending her arms out to Olivia, who was instantly enchanted by the utterly adorable, highly feminine woman's excellent taste in circa-1950's seniorwear.

"Aunt Hildie, this is Olivia, Tony's sister," Michelle said in a slightly elevated voice, which she hated having to use these days to compensate for her dear aunt's hearing problem. It made her feel like she was yelling, which is the last thing she would ever do with her lifelong-saintly aunt, who had showered her with unconditional love and kindness through all the years.

"Do you live in the hotel, sweetheart?" Aunt Hildie sweetly asked Olivia, taking her by the hand and guiding her inside the room.

"Uhh…"

"It's not a hotel, Aunt Hildie. This is where Tony's family lives, remember?" Michelle lovingly repeated for the third time since she had first entered the room to find her aunt unpacking her suitcase and marveling over the accommodations. But she could tell Aunt Hildie wasn't really absorbing her words, already having engulfed the teenaged beauty in a warm embrace.

Olivia was beside herself, completely enthralled by the immense outpouring of sweetness and affection that seemed to flow so naturally and freely from the fragile little lady. She was so much more the age of a grandmother than an aunt, and never having known her own grandmothers, Olivia immediately wanted to keep her.

As Aunt Gert made her reentry from the bedroom on the left into the main livingroom suite, she was rendered equally startled by the breathtaking beauty her eyes beheld.

"Why, aren't you just the loveliest thing in the world!" she exclaimed. "Why, you're just as lovely as our Michelle was at your age!"

"This is Tony's sister, Olivia," Michelle repeated, half-blushing and -beaming over her ever-supportive aunt's thoroughly absurd, though typically loving, assessment.

"My goodness, when is the last time you've eaten, sweetheart?" Aunt Gert backed up a step and inquired in concern, repositioning Olivia just far enough away to conduct a head-to-toe inspection of the girl's emaciated frame.

"Olivia has a little trouble keeping weight on, is all, but we're working on that," Michelle informed her aunt, catching Olivia's eye with a wink.

"Well, you'll come to our Michelle's apartment, where we'll be staying for the next couple of weeks, and I'll bake you a nice a pie," Aunt Gert decided, under no uncertain terms, convinced that there was no eating disorder — or any other malady, for that matter — that a nice homemade fresh-fruit pie couldn't help to cure.

"Would you like me to take you to the zoo?" Aunt Hildie volunteered, for reasons unknown to all in the room except, seemingly, Olivia, whose exotic eyes instantly doubled in size and illuminated with wild excitement.

"I love the zoo! My brother used to take me all the time when I was little, and buy me cotton candy and ice cream. And he even let me eat the peanuts he got for the monkeys. And Daddy always got mad at him because I could never eat dinner, from being so stuffed," Olivia squealed as loudly as her whispery voice could project, suddenly experiencing the oddest sensation that she could've sworn felt just like hunger. "Do models eat cotton candy, or is that off-limits?" she spun around and quickly checked with Michelle, her eyes oozing with hope.

"Yes, and peanuts and ice cream, too. Like I was telling you, Olivia, it's all a matter of mathematics," she warmly reiterated. "And don't forget that you've still got ten pounds to gain, so now is the time to go crazy with yourself."

"Can my brother come along?" Olivia immediately turned back to Aunt Hildie and breathlessly asked, suddenly fearing that cotton candy might not taste the same without him there.

"Why, of course, sweetheart. He can be our driver," the tiny woman cheerily replied, compelling Michelle to stifle a blast of laughter at the mental image of Aunt Hildie clinging to one of Tony's hands all day long, with Olivia surely glued the other, given her lifelong discomfort with crowds.

"We should really be getting ourselves downstairs," Michelle suddenly realized, bringing her wrist up, to check her watch.

"Oh, my _godddddddd!"_ Olivia screeched, instantly identifying the turned-backwards routine on Michelle's official ring finger and making a running bolt for the door.

"Olivia! Wait! No—Olivia!" Michelle called after her, hoping she hadn't just ruined everything, after all the trouble her future father-in-law had gone through to create a surprise announcement for the family.

"Oh, my _godddddddd!"_ Olivia screeched again, this time eyeing her brother making his turn into the hallway from the staircase. "That's an engagement ring she's wearing! She's got it twisted backwards on her finger! _I can tell!"_ she excitedly enthused, racing at rocket speed and jumping up on him, scissoring her legs around his waist to lock herself firmly in place. With tiny arms tightly wrapped around his neck, she gave his cheek a long, exaggerated smooch. "I can't believe you did it! You actually did it!"

"Yeah, well, just don't let on to Mom, y'hear? We're gonna tell her tonight, over dinner," he said, shuddering from how scary-little weight Olivia's body had added to his stride.

"Oh, god, I just can't _belieeeeeeeve_ this!_"_ she gasped, barely able to contain her extreme joy. "I can't believe Michelle is gonna be my sister! And I'm getting new aunts, too, and I already love the crazy one. Did you meet her yet?"

"Yeah, I met her," he mumbled, continuing his gloomy walk down the hallway with Olivia dangling and chattering away as he labored to mentally rehearse his Almeida-mandatory formal request for Michelle's hand in marriage.

"And you two are gonna have kids, too, right? I'm gonna be an aunt, myself, right?" she checked, hugging her cheek against his.

"Just —one step at a time, huh?" he winced, uncomfortable with the thought of Olivia visualizing him making babies. Just hearing the word "babies" always seemed to provoke a snapshot in his head of said baby-makers going at it. His last flash-vision of Petey and Sarina had left him feeling somewhat ill.

"I love you, Bruce," Olivia breathlessly cooed, now smothering his cheek in exaggerated kisses, accompanied by exaggerated sound effects, which sent an instant pang to his heart, reminding him of all the months he had gone without her comical kisses while engaged in full-scale warfare with her, over her purging practices.

"Yeah, yeah," he drawled as he arrived at the door, signaling the end of the conversation with a firm love pat to what very little patting area she even possessed, then prying her leg-lock loose and dropping her onto her feet. "Listen… I'm gonna have my eye on you at the table tonight, y'hear? I wanna see you actually eating something, Olivia," he forewarned her, his hands still in the state of shock from how painfully thin her legs had felt inside his grip. He'd been tempted, for a moment, to see if he could touch his finger and thumb together around a thigh, but had stopped himself for fear of the highly likely possibility, which he wasn't sure he wanted to deal with, just now.

"Rosa is making a recipe for me that I found in Mademoiselle. I've gone vegetarian," she proudly announced, deciding not to share her future sister-in-law's revelation about eating anything in the world she wanted through the weight-gaining process, knowing her brother would only go overboard and push things on her that she didn't like.

"Yeah, well, you clear that vegetarian business with Michelle first. She knows about that kinda stuff," he sternly insisted, nervously loosening his tie a little. "I don't want you inadvertently putting yourself on a weight-loss diet and not even knowing it… Oh, and that boyfriend of yours had better show up at the table in a suit," he added. "These are Michelle's aunts…"

"I know, I know," Olivia joyously squealed all over again, wrapping her arms around his waist and hugging him, tightly.

"And you go get yourself into a dress," he added.

"Daddy already told me," she cooed into his chest, barely able to contain her thrill over the thought of all the upcoming wedding-related shopping and parties, and all the fun chores her mother would undoubtedly be assigning to her.

"Well, how 'bout obeying him, for once, huh?" he grumbled, kissing her forehead. "Go on," he said, turning her in an about-face direction and wiping the lip gloss from his cheek as he watched her speedily whoosh down the hallway.

He cleared his throat and took in a deep breath before rapping his knuckles against the door, relieved that Michelle was the one to answer. Peering over her shoulder to ensure that everyone in there was dressed, he quickly pulled her a few steps into the hallway and out of the ladies' view, then kissed her long and hard against the wall.

"Exactly how many drinks have you had already?" she gasped after a dizzying moment, wondering if she should owe her lightheadedness to his kiss or the remnants of Scotch that had transferred itself from his tongue to hers.

"Look, umm… I need a minute alone with your aunts, okay?" he asked with heavy eyes and a soft voice. "My Dad is making me ask them for your hand in marriage…"

"You're such a romantic," she softly chuckled to forlorn eyes, begging for her sympathy as though they were owned by a gladiator, preparing to walk himself into the lion's den. "They're just two very sweet old ladies, remember," she gently coached him, watching him bring her hand up and twist her ring around, delivering a light kiss to the diamond before returning it to its upside-down position. "I can tell they already love you, honey. Just remember to be polite."

"Uh-huh," he mindlessly agreed, his attention span compromised by his final mental review of the words he had hastily thrown together.

"Umm, Aunt Gert? Aunt Hildie? You've got company," Michelle announced over her shoulder before giving his hand a reassuring squeeze and quickly disappearing down the hallway.

"Oh," Aunt Gert said as he entered the suite, sounding somewhat disappointed that it wasn't Jim Almeida.

"Yeah, umm… Yeah, listen, ladies, I, umm…" he mumbled as he crossed the room and sat on the edge of the couch beside the older aunt, deciding to offer his hand, figuring he might as well save her the time and trouble of fumbling for it herself. "So, umm— see, about this trip out here to meet my family… Umm… Well, there's a little more to it than that. Y'see..."

"You're here to ask for our Michelle's hand in marriage," Aunt Gert interjected, beating him to the punch and getting straight down to business. "From the minute we stepped off the plane, she's been trying to hide that engagement ring she's got turned around on her finger… What _was_ that airline, anyway, young man? We plan on flying it to wherever we vacation, from now on."

"Oh, uhh… yeah, well, if I know my Dad, I'm sure you will," he said with an inward smile, certain that every future flight-to-wherever would come replete with two Black Suits, pre-trained at getting old ladies off the airstairs, and under strict orders to usher them around, safely, wherever they wished to go.

"Are you the one who manhandled our Danny last week, at that horrid place where our Michelle works?" Aunt Gert abruptly switched topics on him. "I want the truth..."

"I, uhh…" Tony stammered, off guard, his inward smile immediately wiping itself off his inner face. "I really didn't have much choice in the matter, ma'am," he stated. "Y'see, I was standing right there when the incident occu—"

"He told me you ordered that he be sedated," Aunt Gert continued, her arms firmly crisscrossed and her foot beginning to impatiently tap out a rhythmic beat against the thick carpeting.

"Well, I… It's protocol, y'see, when an altercation—"

"He's not supposed to have drugs," Aunt Gert sternly informed him.

"Will you take us to the zoo?" Aunt Hildie politely interrupted, wanting to lock in the driving arrangements while the upcoming excursion was still fresh in her mind.

"Wh— Huh?" he stammered, feeling his head involuntarily jerk back in response to the bizarre request.

"What about diseases?" Aunt Gert firmly moved on.

"Ma'am?" he responded, his head snapping in the stern one's direction this time, seemingly on autopilot now.

"Diseases. You'll forgive my forwardness, but Hildie and I are well-versed on the subject of the younger generation, which is plagued these days by social diseases," she reported, recalling how shocked she and her sister had been by the statistics presented a few years back, on Oprah.

"No— no, I'm good, ma'am. They run field-ready agents through mandatory blood work every month," he sputtered, inadvertently opening the door for even more CTU conversation, which he'd promised Michelle he wouldn't get into.

"So you would be able to present documentation of this, upon request?"

"I, uhh…Well, yeah, I guess, if ya like. Michelle's seen the paperwork, though. You can ask her yourself. But, really, ma'am, I'm perfectly healthy. I've hardly ever been sick, except for the chicken pox when I was a kid, and a couple of bulle— What I mean to say is—"

"And about that job of hers, young man, we expect you to purchase a house and start a family so our Michelle can feel free to retire from that horrid institution and raise her children in the safety of her home."

"Yes, ma'am," he said, remembering Michelle's advice last week, to just "yes" his mother to death, as she had spent her life doing with her aunts.

"Stand up, young man," Aunt Gertie directed.

"Uhh…" he hesitated, though already on his feet, not quite sure as to how he had landed there, but safely assuming that his growing nervousness around this woman had probably had something to do with it. He suddenly found himself beginning to pray that he made it out of there without being thrown up against the wall and frisked for contraband. He was also beginning to wonder exactly how long ago Danny had taken up his drinking hobby.

The old woman took her time circling around him, slowly looking him over and nodding, seemingly in approval, which he assumed was a good sign until he felt her hand press against his 9mm, holstered to his side, beneath his jacket.

"There'll be no guns in the house, with the children."

"No guns," he replied, merely repeating the woman's own words, therein stealthily skirting around any unequivocal agreement on his own part, recalling his Mom's crafty technique, as generously outlined by his Dad last weekend.

"Well, then, since our Michelle is clearly in love and has apparently agreed to the marriage, and since your father certainly seems like a man who knows how to raise a son right," she concluded, motioning him to stoop down for a kiss on the cheek, "you have our permission."

"Thank you, ma'am. I'll take good care of her. You have my word," he guaranteed her.

"Well, just be certain that you do, because if you break her heart, you'll have Hildie and me to contend with," Aunt Gert informed him in a deadly serious tone that assured him he had better believe that she meant business.

"Can I go now?" he thought he should ask, just to be on the safe side.

"Do your parents own the hotel, or just run things?" Aunt Hildie's little voice chimed in from behind him as she struggled to rise from the couch, with purse in hand, ready to be escorted downstairs for her cocktail now.

He felt oddly relieved this time, in a protected sort of way, as she took his hand and walked with him to the door, pausing momentarily as Gertie scrambled to find her own purse.

"It's, uhh… it's actually more of a luxury bed-and-breakfast. And, yeah, they own it," he said in a lowered voice, figuring he wasn't technically implanting the idea of a hotel stay in her head, since she had been the one to bring it up — although fully prepared to help her unpack later on, if she were to somehow get it into her head to do so.

Grateful to find two of his Dad's Black Suits on the other side of the door, waiting to accompany the ladies in the elevator, Tony politely excused himself and beat it down the hallway and three flights of stairs, relieved to find Michelle waiting at the door of the drawing room with a Scotch she had already poured for him.

"How did it go? Did you have a nice chat?" she inquired, with a sweet, soothing smile.

"Geeziz, Michelle, that one in the blue flowers would've made a good cop," he snarled, quickly commandeering the Scotch and reaching for a fistful of hors d'oeuvres passing by on a tray.

"Well, she's the strict one, honey," Michelle gently reminded him.

"No kidding," he growled. "Ya might wanna mention that I've been vetted by the FBI, Homeland Security and the Defense Department. She worked me over in there like I was some kinda threat to the whole of humanity."

"She's just feeling you out, dear. She had hardly even heard your name before I called, just a few days ago, let's remember. And then, suddenly, there you are, talking about marriage…"

"She already knew about that, incidentally," he mentioned, feeling his blood pressure beginning to return to somewhat normal levels after downing the Scotch in a single swig. "She pinned that backwards-ring out at the airport. Which reminds me, you'd better give me that, because Olivia also figured it out, which means my Mom is gonna know the second she walks in the room."

"I'll be sure to keep it out of sight this time. Really, dear," she promised.

"Yeah, well, that didn't work out too well with Olivia, did it, now," he gently pointed out, reaching for her hand to remove the ring.

"No, I'll— look, I'll just stand with my hand behind my back a little, like this. See, honey?" she demonstrated, striking a casual pose, which instantly reminded him of how female Secret Service agents looked when trying to blend in at presidential galas: always in a two-piece formal getup, with one hand glued to the drink they never sipped; the other lingering slightly behind them somewhere, ever perched to pull the weapon tucked into the skirt-part of their gown.

He nevertheless acquiesced with a sigh, deciding on the spot, however, that as long as everyone would soon be gathered in the drawing room, with toast-ready drinks in their hands anyway, he would dispense with waiting for dinner and just make the announcement there and then, the second the formal introductions with the aunts and his Mom had been made.

"The Suits are bringing them down now, so you just— just run interference for me with the blue-flowered one, will ya, please? I thought she was gonna strip-search me up in that room, for cryin' out loud," Tony continued on with his rant. "You don't know the third-degree she put me through, Michelle…"

"Did CTU come up?"

"Of course it came up. Guns came up. Blood-testing came up. Oh, and you're having children right way, I hope you don't mind."

"Don't let yourself get all upset, honey. They live clear on other side of the country. We'll decide, ourselves, when it's time to have children."

"Yeah, well, between my mother and your aunt, we might as well hit the deck and get started on it right now," he complained, surprised by the gush of emotions that had unexpectedly overwhelmed him upon realizing that they were having their first conversation about kids, albeit a heated one.

"Just calm yourself down, dear," Michelle suggested, dragging a soothing hand down his arm. "This is no way to start the evening…"

After momentarily rethinking her choice of the vintage Pucci belted shift, which somehow managed to make her legs appear even longer and lankier with just the right two-and-a-quarter-inch heel, Amanda Almeida took a final, hurried minute to switch out her diamonds for pearls and rework her up-do into a casual down-do, with a playful flip, before whisking herself out of her bedroom and down the staircase, utterly dying to finally see who these mystery clients of her husband's were.

Greeting his wife outside the drawing room door with a cold martini in hand, as always, Jim offered his arm, told her how stunning she looked, and meant it, and guided her into the room, having to search no further than his son's expression to know where the tiny ladies could be found. Suppressing laughter at the sight of Aunt Hildie already attached to Tony's hand, Jim Almeida led his mystified wife up to the tightly huddled group.

"Sweetheart, if I might introduce you to our guests, Misses Gertrude and Hildegard Dessler," he smiled. "Ladies, may I present my wife, Amanda Almeida?"

"Oh! Oh!" Amanda gasped, completely shocked to suddenly find herself in the presence of the two saints who had given her future daughter-in-law a loving home after having been so tragically ripped from her dear mother's arms, when only an infant.

"Amanda Almeida!" Aunt Gertie gasped. _"The_ Amanda Almeida?" she double-checked, in sheer disbelief, completely shocked to suddenly find herself in the presence of the celebrated "West Coast hostess of the mostest," whom she and Hildie had been reading about in the society section of better magazines for going on ages, now.

"You took little Michelle into your _home_," Amanda struggled to force out the words while holding back a floodgate of tears, her husband grabbing her martini glass just in the nick of time as she thrust her arms out to the ladies.

"You entertained the _Dalai Lama_, June fourteenth of 2007!" Aunt Gert's tiny voice croaked in awe as she wrapped her arms around Amanda's wrapped arms. Tony and his Dad stared at each other, then at Michelle, who was bursting with joy over the instantaneous mutual-admiration society forming between her aunts and mother-in-law-to-be.

"Oh, I _must_ have him back so you can meet him! He's a charming man, and so insightful," Amanda assured Aunt Gert as Tony seized the moment to liberate himself of Aunt Hattie, steering her into the cackling gaggle.

"You know, Mrs. Almeida, this is all beginning to make perfect sense to me, now. When Hildie and I were upstairs before— "

"'_Amanda,'_ darling. I absolutely insist…"

"'Gertie' and 'Hildie'," Aunt Gert cheerily insisted back. "Amanda, darling, this explains why I felt so completely acquainted with the breathtaking chandelier in your upstairs suite… and the oil rendering of early Bel Air, and — my goodness, I thought I was experiencing déjà vu — but even the piping on the settee cushions," she elaborated, in amazement, recalling the wholesale comfort and keen familiarity she had instantly felt upon approaching the estate, as though she had visited before.

"Why, darling, you must have seen it in Town & Country magazine. They did a perfectly lovely feature only a few months ago," Amanda beamed in delight.

"That's it, of _course!_ I just couldn't quite put my finger on it!_"_ Aunt Gert gasped in mental relief, the puzzle pieces finally fitting together. "Hildie, you remember viewing the feature piece of the two-bedroom suite, that night at the kitchen table, when Eleanor Porter was over, don't you?" she asked her sister, though knowing the chances were close to nil, what with her dear Hildie's bouts of memory loss these days, the progression of which had been mercifully slow but heart-wrenchingly noticeable, all the same. "Why, Amanda, we went over every detail in that feature, for an entire hour. In all our travels, I can't say that we've ever encountered a bedroom suite as finely designed. Isn't that right, Hildie?"

"I've never seen a bed-and-breakfast quite so grand," Aunt Hildie sincerely agreed, with a beaming smile, thoroughly enjoying her Tom Collins and glancing around for the nearest waiter.

"Well, then, I absolutely insist you stay the weekend, darling!"

"_Here?"_ Aunt Gertie sputtered in shock as Tony's eyebrows shot up.

"Why, of course, darling! I'll have Rosa assign one of her staff to unpack while we're dining. And later this evening, I'll show you my new grandchildren, right in the cottage behind the house!"

"_Babies?"_ Aunt Hildie turned and gasped, her full attention to the conversation now suddenly and instantaneously restored.

"Two of them, darling. And brand new, as well. I only got them last weekend!"

With a shake of his head and a nod of his chin, Jim Almeida instructed his lead Black Suit to take the martini glass and situate himself at his wife's side, then turned to his son and future daughter-in-law.

"Can I freshen anyone's drink?" he offered in a low mumble, nodding in the direction of the estate's rear patio, knowing full-well it would be awhile before any of them would be able to get a word in with the gleeful threesome, and God only knowing how long dinner would inevitably be placed on hold.

The sun was on its last legs, and the stars were beginning to show themselves, as they stepped outside in single file, fresh drinks in hand and spreading out toward the cluster of richly upholstered loungers and wingback chairs.

"Well, so far so good, I would say, Mr. Almeida," Michelle beamed, kicking off the conversation with a delighted assessment of the way the evening had progressed, thus far.

"Come sit with me, little lady," Jim Almeida said, patting the empty space of the double-lounger, where his wife would stretch out every night when they stargazed for a few moments, before turning in.

Tony planted himself in the wingchair adjacent to the double-lounger, stretching his legs out and drinking in the heartwarming sight of Michelle nestling into his Dad's embrace.

"Now, tell me… what did you say your father's first name was?" Jim Almeida inquired once Michelle had comfortably snuggled in.

"Adam," she shyly replied, delighting in how natural it felt to be wrapped up in his fatherly embrace, as though he had been doing so since the day she was born.

"Adam…" he repeated, pausing as if lost in thought while investing a brief few moments gazing up at the star-speckled sky. "Well, Mr. Adam Dessler," he addressed the heavens, "since it seems that I'm the lucky man whose family you've selected to have your lovely daughter join, I wonder if you would allow me the honor of permitting her to call me 'Dad' from this point forward. Hmm?"

Michelle felt herself well up, a knot instantly forming in her throat. With a quick glance from the corner of her eye, she noticed that Tony was engaging in a flash-flood battle of his own.

"Well, then, Adam, 'Dad' it is," Jim Almeida politely concurred after a moment of pretending to thoughtfully digest the response from above, wrapping his cosmic conversation up with a sealed agreement to look after the man's daughter, in return, and love her as much he did his own. "There, now, young lady, you heard your father. It's 'Dad' from here on in."

"Yes, Dad," Michelle giggled through misty eyes, feeling a teardrop about to spill against her earthly father's tie as he leaned in and planted a light kiss against her forehead.

"Next on the agenda… what would you say to your aunts staying with the Almeidas for awhile, hmm? You two could probably stand some alone time, since you're not gonna see much more of it once that Francois guy arrives with his weddingmobile in the morning," he pointed out, recalling the mayhem of the weekend before. "Plus, while you're putting in full days at CTU, I'm sure your aunts would probably like to participate in the wedding planning."

"It'll save you the trouble of hauling them over here every morning, at the crack of dawn, honey," Tony exploded into the conversation, shooting his Dad the world's most eternally grateful look, vowing to pay him back someday, somehow, though having no idea of what he could possibly do to return the favor. His Dad's eyes responded with the suggestion that he give some thought to the fact that it was actually his mother who had extended the invitation to the aunts, in the drawing room; that he was seeing, with his own eyes, yet another perfect example of the little things his mother would do, which tended to go unnoticed by him.

"I really hadn't even thought about the transportation," Michelle replied, her brow creasing as she conducted a quick mental review of how upcoming daily events were likely to play out. "That would spare my aunts of having to rise-and-shine so early, before the realtors start showing the apartment. And so much of the big furniture is gone, including the armoire in their room..."

"When's the last time I told you I love, Dad?" Tony's eyes telepathically inquired as he rose from his seat and made room for himself on his father's other side. "So, what do ya say, honey?" he asked in real words this time, reaching across his Dad and twisting the ring into the upward position, seeing if he could get the sparkle to interact with the starlight, wishing he could send some kind of morse-coded message to Adam, to thank him for creating Michelle and saving her for him. "You can come straight here from work everyday, too, while I go home and feed your cat…"

"He's gonna be our cat soon," Michelle gently reminded him as Jim Almeida struggled to refrain from chuckling.

"Uh-huh," Tony lied, in complete agreement. "And your aunts can spend all day long getting to know Olivia and Mom and Sarina — and the babies, let's not forget. Did ya happen to notice how Aunt Hattie lit up when she heard about them?"

Michelle thought for a few quiet moments.

"So what do you think, little lady?" Jim Almeida asked after a respectful passage of time.

"I think…" Michelle replied, her eyes still slightly squinting as she completed the logistical computations in her head. "I think I don't know how to thank you, Mr. Alme—"

"Dad…" her earthly father gently corrected her.

"Dad," Michelle repeated, a fresh layer of mist beginning to coat her eyes.

"Daddy! Call him _Daddy_, like I do!" a whispery shriek roared up from behind them. "Oh, my _godddddddd_," Olivia squealed, leaping on top of them and landing with a featherweight thud, then seizing Michelle's hand to finally inspect the diamond she had attempted to steathily conceal. "I can't believe this is happening! When are we gonna tell Mommy?"

"_You're_ not telling her anything," Tony quickly reminded her. "Michelle and I are gonna be the— "

The moment was shattered by his-and-her cell phones jangling in harmony: a telltale sign that an event important enough to necessitate all hands onsite had presented itself at CTU.

"Good frickin' lord," Tony bellowed, quickly darting his eyes upward with all proper apologies to his celestial father-in-law's boss. "Almeida," he barked into his phone while Michelle professionally spoke into hers. "Wait… what?" he said, eyes squinting in confusion. "Mrs. Sanchez, I can't understand what you're—huh? ... Well, what are ya even doing there? You're supposed to be off today…"

His ears zeroed in on Michelle's end of the conversation upon hearing her invoke Mrs. Goebels's name, whose voice was echoing through his own phone amid what sounded like a multi-lingual screamfest going down at his apartment.

"Mrs. Sanchez, just stay — just stay right there, huh? I'm on my way, all right?" he groused, firmly clapping the phone shut and scrambling to his feet. "Honey, I'll take care of this," he said, whatever in the world "this" even was, from what little intel he was able to gather, with all the Spanish and German and English transmitting through crackling cell waves bouncing off the hills of Bel Air. "Dad, tell Mom not to hold up dinner, or anything. I'll get back as soon as— "

"I'm coming with you," Michelle insisted, praying to God that whatever was going on, Fluff-Fluff had had the wherewithal to take cover beneath one of the beds.

"What's this about, chief?" Jim Almeida queried, now on his feet, himself, prepared to round up the Suits, should backup be required.

"Nothing, Dad," Tony assured him, beside himself with aggravation as he pulled Michelle onto her feet. "Just housekeeper business," he reported, shooting a firm fair-warning glare at his fiancé, as if to suggest that one of said housekeepers might well be handed her walking papers tonight.


End file.
